City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(112)

It takes a moment for me to realize whom she meant. Yep, they are good drugs. I glance at Dalton, and realize the slightly dazed look on his face is more than guilt and exhaustion.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I say.

He says nothing.

“You should go home,” I say. “Rest.”

“Casey’s right,” Beth says. “I’ll call Will to help you home.”

“I’m fine.”

“Eric …” I say, and I start to insist, but I fade, slumping back onto the pillow. Beth tucks me in with, “Get some sleep. I’ll send Eric home.”


I wake to find Dalton still in the chair. Beth’s gone and he’s alert enough now that when I open my eyes, he’s at my bedside.

“Didn’t obey the doctor’s orders, I see.”

“I understand if you don’t want me here—”

“No,” I say. “I do. But you look ready to drop.”

“I’m staying.”

“Okay.” I shift so he can sit on the bed. After some prodding, he does.

I say, “No one else knows about Jacob, do they?”

He shakes his head.

“Was it a long time ago?” I ask. “The separation?”

He nods and then blurts, “If I had any idea he’d ever—”

“You have a brother in the forest, Eric. One of the hostiles is your brother.”

“He’s not a—” He swallows the rest.

“Did it happen when you were kids?” I ask.

He nods.

“I’m going to guess he was either taken from the town or he wandered off, got lost out there, and was taken in by settlers.”

He pauses so long I don’t think I’m going to get an answer. Then he says, “Something like that.”

“And he blames you. Maybe you were with him when he got lost or he just blames you for not coming after him.”

“Something like—” He runs his hands through his hair, head dropping as he lets out a noise between a growl and a groan. “Jacob’s not a hostile. He’s never been—What you saw out there—I don’t know what’s happening, but that is not my brother.”

“Okay.”

He waits for me to argue. When I don’t, he shifts on the bed and faces me. “It happened when we were kids, like you said. By the time I saw him again, we were teenagers, and I tried to bring him to Rockton, but he wasn’t interested, and maybe I should have dragged his ass in here and—”

He stops, breathing so fast he can’t continue. He grips the bedspread, closes his eyes, and then continues, a little calmer. “The point is that he’s always been welcome here, but he’s not interested, and I respect that. As for what he blames me for … Yeah, I was a kid, and I made a mistake, and I thought I was doing the right thing, and …” He shakes it off. “Doesn’t matter. He does blame me for the separation. But it’s not like what you saw out there. He’s not like that. Even the smell …”

“He might not have access to hot showers, but he usually takes better care of himself.”

“Much better. Sure, we argue sometimes. About him being out there and me being here. But it’s arguing—not swearing revenge and threatening to kill—”

That fast breathing again. Anxiety and panic, and though I’ve never seen him like this, I recognize the signs. This is territory he avoids, like I avoid the subject of my past. It’s the trigger that flips the switch from the hard-ass sheriff to the boy who lost his younger brother to the forest and hasn’t ever gotten over it.

“We argue,” he says. “That’s it, and not even much of that.”

“You have contact with him. Like you said before.”

He nods. “Plenty of contact. Social and otherwise. He trades meat and furs for things he can’t get easily, like clothing and weapons. Maybe it’s not exactly a normal relationship for brothers, but … f*ck if I know what is.” He makes a face, frustration mingled with embarrassment. He’s right, of course. Anything he knows about sibling relationships comes from books. There’s none of that in Rockton. Another reminder of how different his life is, and how very aware he is of that difference.

“It is what it is,” he says. “And it’s not like what you saw today. At all.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“Two days before you got here. He seemed fine. After we found Powys, I went out to speak to him, see if he knew anything, but he wasn’t around. You heard Brent. That worried me, but then you spotted him when we went caving, so … I figured he was fine.”

“He seemed okay the last time you talked with him?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

“Taking care of himself?”

“Of course.”

“How old is he?”

“Three years younger than me. Why?”

I tell him what I’m thinking. Schizophrenia. Early adulthood onset, the sudden paranoia, the lack of interest in personal grooming. Dalton’s well read enough to know what it is.

“I don’t know if it can come on that fast,” I say. “But it might have been a more gradual deterioration than it seems. I mean, he kept himself clean enough, but …”